Their Unwound Futures
by Smart Aleckette
Summary: Fame. Family. Love. They had so much ahead of them, so much to live for. Then, in the blink of an eye, the explosion cruelly snatched away everything they held dear, and destroyed their futures forever. A fiveshot. Layton/Claire. ::COMPLETE::
1. The Gentleman

**Back when I first finished The Unwound Future, I did two things: One, I cried my eyes out, and two, I got an idea for a little series of one-shots/drabbles that focussed on the explosion of the time machine. Mostly because I love the Layton/Claire relationship, but also because the five main characters involved are so dynamic and it would be interesting to write about the same tragic event from different points of view. Hence, the idea was born, but I was too lazy to act on it.**

**Now that I've finished writing my one exam with a week of nothing to do ahead, however, I've decided that, rather than work on my other fics, I might as well start this. As mentioned in the summary, it is a five-shot, with each one focussing on a different character. In order, they are Layton, Bill, Dimitri, Clive, and Claire. And yes, there will be Layton/Claire. Significant amounts of it, actually. The goal is to finish before school resumes, but with my track record, that's unlikely to happen. Still, might as well give it a shot, huh?**

**Disclaimer: "Any society that needs disclaimers has too many lawyers." Eric Pepke.**

* * *

**The Gentleman**

Hershel Layton was very pleased with himself. Very pleased indeed.

He knew he wasn't acting much like a gentleman, but he couldn't help but feel a rush of pride every time he thought about his latest accomplishment. He had been hired on to Gressenheller University as a professor just a few days ago, and it wasn't every day that one was appointed to the staff of one of the most prestigious institutions in the country at the age of just twenty-seven. The novelty hadn't worn off just yet, and he wondered if it ever would.

He wouldn't start teaching until the new term began, but Layton still felt very optimistic about the whole thing. It was difficult to keep a silly grin off his face as he stood in the kitchen, making himself a cup of tea as he reflected on the past couple of years. It felt as if his whole life had been slowly but surely building itself up to this point, and he had never felt more content. He had his tea, a much-coveted position at Gressenheller, and–

"Hershel, could you come in here for a minute?"

Claire.

Layton turned to see her standing behind him, in the doorway leading to the dining room. She was carrying a tall back wrapped with red ribbon, smiling sweetly at him. He couldn't help but smile back at her. She had that sort of effect on people, a warm feeling that enveloped everyone who spoke to her. They had been seeing each other for over a year and a half now, and he still couldn't believe that she had chosen him.

"Of course, Claire," Layton said, abandoning his tea (after all, a gentleman always had to pput a lady's needs in front of his own) and followed her into the dining room.

"Take a seat," Claire insisted, nodding to one of the chairs at the dining room table.

Obediently, Layton sat down. Claire placed the box on the table between them and sat down, toying with the ribbon. Her eyes sparkled behind her glasses as she said, "Here you go."

Layton gave the box a bemused look. "What's this?"

"Open it and see," Claire said teasingly.

Slowly, hesitantly, Layton reached up and untied the ribbon. It fluttered to the table as Layton took the box and opened it, lifting the lid to reveal a tall, dark top hat. He gazed at it, somewhat surprised. It must have been about a foot and a half tall, with an orange trim around its brim.

"A... hat?" he said, uncertain what to make of it.

Claire giggled. "For the newly appointed professor," she told him, her smile radiant.

"Th-Thank you," Layton stammered, setting the lid of the box aside. He wasn't quite sure what to do with the hat. Wear it, he supposed, but he didn't think it really suited him at all.

Claire, sensing his hesitation, stood up and reached over, removing his red cap and setting it on the table. Taking the top hat, she said, "You're a fully-fledged member of the academic community now, so you've got to look the part."

Taking great care, Claire placed the top hat on his head. She took a step back as Layton sat, shell shocked, in his seat, surveying him critically. Then she smiled and let out a small trickle of laughter. "Very dashing, Hershel," she complimented him. "The picture of a true gentleman."

"A... true gentleman?" echoed Layton. He wanted to protest. He wasn't a true gentleman. Although he strove to be one, he wasn't even close to being one yet. He reached up to remove the hat, but Claire's fingers gently closed around his wrist, stopping him.

"No, leave it on," she told him softly. "It suits you. So no taking it off."

Slowly, Layton lowered his hands. When had she gotten such a high opinion of him? He didn't feel as if he deserved her, let alone the hat that now sat perched on his head, an alien thing that he felt would fall off any second.

Claire glanced at the clock. "Oh, I didn't realize how late it was," she said, pulling a face. She crossed the room to grab her white lab coat. Slipping into it, she explained, "We're running a very important experiment today at the lab. Let's continue this celebration over dinner tonight."

Layton, feeling as if his hat was in danger of tipping over, readjusted it. _Ah, yes, dinner, _he thought, feeling his face redden slightly. He had a very important errand to run before their celebratory dinner tonight, something he had been meaning to do once his appointment as a professor at Gressenheller was confirmed.

"Oh, and promise me you'll wear the hat?" asked Claire, shouldering her bag and heading for the door. "I know it's not your usual style, but keep an open mind." She stopped at the door, turned, and smiled at him. "After all, isn't that what a gentleman does?"

"Um... I suppose so," Layton replied.

Claire's smile widened, and then she was turning to leave, closing the door behind her.

Layton gazed at the closed door for a moment, raising his hand instinctively to his hat. He had half a mind to take it off, but he remembered what Claire had asked him, and, with a ridiculous smile plastered on his face, he lowered his hand.

Yes, Claire was exactly right. A gentleman must always keep an open mind.

The kettle whistled in the kitchen, and, startled, Layton jumped, his hat almost falling off his head. He quickly reached up to keep it on and got to his feet, because gentlemen also didn't let their kettle catch fire and burn their homes to the ground.

**-X-X-X-**

An hour later, Layton stood at a jewellery store counter at the closest mall, inspecting an array of rings. He felt rather self-conscious in the small store – the only other customers were women, and they kept casting amused glances at his top hat. The only reason that Layton hadn't taken the hat off yet was because Claire hadn't wanted him too. Not that he hated the hat, he just wasn't used to it yet.

Layton tried to keep his thoughts from straying up to the top hat on his head and focussed on the task at hand. There was only one problem – he didn't really know what he was looking for besides the obvious. This ring selection was a tricky business, and he had never realized just how much thought one should put into it. How expensive was too expensive? Was this one too flashy? Not flashy enough?

Claire herself, when they had discussed it a few weeks ago, said that she hadn't really cared. But that had been back when they had merely speculated on the possibility of his getting the position at Gressenheller, when everything was a matter of what-ifs and hypothetical situations, a safe distance away from the present, not yet cemented in reality. With startling rapidity, the very things they had spent so much time speaking about had suddenly become much more real with this appointment to Gressenheller, and Layton, true to the promise he had made to himself when he had first sent in his resume, was now here, feeling completely lost.

"May I help you?"

Layton gave a start and turned around. An elderly saleswoman stood behind him, hands folded, head tilted slightly to one side as she contemplated this strange man in the top hat. His face reddened even more.

"Um, I was just looking..." he mumbled.

The saleswoman gave him a small, knowing smile. "Engagement ring?" she guessed.

Layton felt his face go even redder. Had it been _that_ obvious?

"Well, I can help you, if you want," the saleswoman told him. "I can tell you have no idea what you're doing."

"I... I don't, not really," Layton admitted, somewhat glad for the help.

"Have you discussed it with your fiancée-to-be at all?" asked the saleswoman, moving up to the counter and inspecting the rings there. "Any particular style or setting?"

"She doesn't have any real preferences," Layton answered sheepishly.

"Does she wear jewellery very often?" the saleswoman inquired.

Layton shook his head, and his hat tipped precariously until he pushed it back into place on his head.

The saleswoman pursed her lips, surveying the line of rings. Then she circled the counter and, opening it from the back, drew out a simple golden ring, its sole diamond cut in a small square.

"Nice and simple, but elegant at the same time," the saleswoman said, holding it up so that the diamond sparkled in the light. "One of our cheaper selections. Although you look as if you could afford it."

"What?" Layton said, confused. Then he remembered his top hat. "Oh. Um, actually–"

"Let me guess," the saleswoman interrupted him. "Your fiancée-to-be...?"

"Claire," he supplied.

"Claire," repeated the saleswoman, tasting the name. "Yes, well, Claire bought that hat for you, didn't she?"

Layton nodded, smiling in spite of himself at the memory.

Five minutes later, the ring encased in a dark blue box, Layton tipped his hat to the saleswoman. "Thank you very much, Miss," he said.

The saleswoman smiled. "No trouble at all. Claire is a lucky lady indeed," she told him.

_But not as lucky as I, _thought Layton.

As he exited the jewellery store and entered the mall proper, the box clutched tightly in his hand, Layton saw a small group of people grouped around the window for the nearby electronics store. At first he wasn't sure what the reason for the commotion was, but from where he stood, he could see the multitude of televisions in the window. All of the screens showed the same scene – a smoking, burning street, full of emergency vehicles and panicked civilians. The BBC logo was displayed in the corner, and Layton, curious, made his way over to the window.

The group was watching the news in silence, their eyes huge. The televisions were muted, but all the same, Layton gathered that some sort of fire or explosion had taken place in London. The reporter covering the story was grim-faced, and the statistics were rolling along the bottom of the screen. Ten people found dead so far, twelve injured. The names of the dead who hadn't been too badly burned to identify crossed the screen. The first two were complete strangers.

The third's name, however, was horribly familiar.

Claire Barker.

Layton stared at the television screen, not quite comprehending what he had seen. They couldn't mean Claire. He had seen her a mere hour ago, made plans for dinner, received the very hat on his head from her. Instinctively, he touched it to make sure that it was indeed still there. It was.

No, they must be speaking of a different Claire.

Yet Layton felt a horrible feeling settle in the pit of his stomach, one of fear and dread and denial. He pushed his way to the front of the line, his eyes fixed on the television screen. The onlookers allowed him to pass, as if they sensed that something was wrong. He gazed desperately up at the reporter on screen before they cut to a view of the street itself.

Layton felt his heart momentarily stop beating. Indeed, the whole world seemed to stop, freezing in place in front of his very eyes. The street was terribly familiar to him, even in its blackened, destroyed state. It was the street where Claire and her partners had rented out lab space for their research, the building that was being engulfed in flames their building. And the names of the dead continued to roll on and on in the bottom part of the screen, unfeeling, uncaring, like some cruel joke.

"No," Layton whispered, and he didn't notice that his grip on the box was tightening painfully. "No. No! _No!_"

He turned and ran out of the crowd, away from the stark and tragic truth that leered down at him from the cold, emotionless television screens in the window. Before he knew it, he had run out of the mall. Several blocks over, a plume of smoke rose above the London buildings, indicating the spot where the accident had occurred, smoke scorching his nose.

Layton collapsed to his knees, gazing desperately up at the smoke. People passed him by, giving him odd looks or else ignoring him completely. He ignored them as well. This couldn't be happening. It _couldn't_. Claire was not dead. She could not be dead. It was a mistake, a horrible mistake, that was all.

Layton pulled himself to his feet and began to run like a madman toward the scene of the accident. He supposed that he was, in a sense, a madman, and not a gentleman at all. A madman running toward the truth, and yet who wanted to run as far away from it as possible. A madman who knew in his heart that everything he held dear had just been taken away from him, and yet who desperately wanted to be contradicted.

But Layton didn't know what else to do, and so he kept running, still tightly clutching the box that had held his and Claire's destroyed future hopes and dreams in his hand.


	2. The Politician

**banjkazfan: I cried like a baby at the end of The Unwound Future as well. That game was incredibly depressing. And it's nice to know that people are actually moved by what I write, instead of thinking, "Wow, this is your idea of tragic writing? You suck." So thank you for brightening my day by being sad. :)**

**speed and write: Don't worry, I'm continuing. I seem to have garnered some interest this, which is good. I just have a habit of letting my fics fall off the radar is all. Thank you for reviewing.**

**Okay, so I took a couple of days off to go to a wedding. (Ironically, the wedding involved British people.) But I'm back now – with an update, if you can imagine. Completely changing gears from the last one-shot, this one is about Bill Hawks, A.K.A. the evil jerk who killed Claire and inadvertently drove Clive to try to destroy London. At first glance, this might not make any sense. You may be asking yourself a few questions. For example, how does this fit in with the whole theme of destroyed futures when Bill actually profited from the time machine's explosion? How could he possibly have lost anything in the accident? How could you write about the man who destroyed the best pairing in the Professor Layton games and possibly in any piece of fiction ever created, you horrible, horrible person?**

**Thing is, I'm the kind of person who likes to tear characters apart, to find deeper motives or inspirations that the canon never gives us. I personally think it's boring to take characters at face value. That's partly why a project like this, and fanfiction in general, appeals to me so much. And while I'm not trying to justify what Bill did, I do think it's important to understand him. Plus, he's sort of instrumental in the whole time machine thing. Just saying.**

**. . . Also, I had to bump up the rating to T. Once I took the time to actually read the ratings guidelines, I realized that the swearing in this one-shot is probably not the best thing to have in a K-rated fic. XD Ah well. Enough of my ramblings. Enjoy.**

* * *

**The Politician**

"Life sucks, and then you die."

This philosophy, never spoken but ingrained in the conscience of the working poor of London, was omnipresent. It bowed heads, dragged feet along the ground, deadened eyes, dulled hopes. It sucked the life from everyone, from the youngest child to the old men who shuffled from street to street, with no destination in mind and nowhere to go. Any hopes and dreams they might have once held, any fancies that might have entered their heads, were soon stamped out. They were faced with the daunting, impossible task of bettering themselves, of digging themselves out of the pit they had fallen into. Happy endings were for fairy tales, and the impoverished streets of London were no place for fairy tales.

But there was always the occasional exception, a rebel who refused to allow their dreams to be extinguished without a fight. The kind who wouldn't let circumstance get in the way, the ones who picked themselves up when they fell, regardless of the many bruises of failed attempts.

Bill Hawks was one of these exceptions.

He had pulled himself out of the poverty-stricken world into which he had been born and into a new and better future. He had never looked back, not when he had left home at the tender age of sixteen to attend boarding school, not when he had graduated from university, not when he had become one of the world's top experts in quantum physics and time travel. He had left those terrible days behind in the dust, a closed chapter in the book of his life.

Or so he thought.

For there was one thing that Bill Hawks would not admit to anyone, least of all to himself. The early years of his life had left him hungry for something that he could never quench. He was never quite sure what this hunger was for, for it could not be satisfied by fame or his many achievements. Yet it always lurked in the back of his mind, ready to surface at any moment, as omnipresent as the principle that had tried and failed to cage him in the world he had been born to.

It was only when he received that first fateful call that Hawks realized what he was so hungry for: the fortune he so rightly deserved.

**-X-X-X-**

The time machine he had been working on with his colleagues, Dimitri and Claire, was fairly hush-hush to the general public. Amongst the scientific community, however, the time machine had achieved a level of infamy that came with dealing with such things as time travel. At first, the scientific community collectively scoffed – time travel was for sci-fi novels, and it would take many, many years yet until a functioning time machine could be made. What were those three fools thinking, that they could do it all by themselves?

Yet as time wore on, disbelief slowly turned to cautious optimism as the machine entered the final stages of its design. A few tests with inanimate objects like rocks proved that it worked. They would place something inside and throw the switch – when the door was opened, the time machine would be empty. A few hours later, whatever had disappeared had reappeared from wherever it had gone.

(According to Dimitri, who launched into a lengthy dialogue on the subject whenever possible – and especially when Claire was around – this had to do with molecular instability. Bill hadn't really cared, so long as the time machine actually worked.)

When those first few successful tests had occurred, Bill, Dimitri, and Claire had published their findings in one of the most widely read scientific journals of the day. A few days after it was put in circulation, Bill and Dimitri received a phone call from Gowan Industries, a large corporation with an interest in the time machine.

"Have you run any tests with people yet?" the spokesman had asked them.

"No, we haven't," Dimitri replied, looking skeptical at this sudden interest. "It's not ready for living test subjects yet."

"When would the time machine be ready for human use?"

Dimitri cast a questioning look at Bill, who answered promptly, "We're not quite sure. It could be months before we can use this on animals, let alone humans. I'd say a few years."

"Well, Gowan Industries would be very interested in purchasing the technology behind this time machine," the spokesman said. "For a _very _lucrative price, I assure you."

Bill's heart leapt, and he and Dimitri quickly exchanged glances. Dimitri's eyes were full of a cautious optimism, but visions of piles of money were already dancing through Bill's head.

"However," the spokesman continued, and quickly, Bill's spirits plummeted before he even knew the conditions of this however, "we would need proof that this time machine isn't an elaborate hoax."

"So you would need the time machine to be used on a human test subject," Dimitri said. It was not a question, but rather a statement, and Dimitri's eyes flashed with an unsettling anger.

"Well, yes, of course," the spokesman said, sounding pleased that Dimitri had caught on so quickly. "Things like rocks and pencils can't tell us whether or not the time machine works. Only a human could. We'd be willing to pay five million pounds for the technology if it were to be proved feasible, seven million if the test were to be conducted soon."

Bill opened his mouth to say something, but Dimitri cut across him, saying curtly, "Yes, well, we'll consider your proposal."

Without another word, Dimitri hung up.

"What was that about?" exclaimed Bill, staring at his partner.

Dimitri gestured at the time machine that sat in the corner of the lab, his eyes still flashing angrily. "It's not ready for a living test subject, Bill, let alone a human one."

"Why not? It works on inanimate objects," Bill argued.

"The things we've been transporting in the time machine are small, simple objects," Dimitri reminded him, crossing the room toward the time machine. He pulled a pencil out of his pocket and held it up, he said, "There's a great deal of difference in transporting this pencil and transporting you or me. The time machine could overload, and who knows what could happen then. You're no fool, Bill, you know the risks."

Bill scowled. "I say we've been playing in the sandbox too long, Dimitri. It's time to take the next step and see what we can do with this thing."

"Don't tell me you're seriously considering this proposal," Dimitri said, staring at his patner incredulously. "It's too dangerous, and I'm not about to risk my life's work and another human's life for any amount of money."

Dimitri stormed out of the room, slamming the door behind him. Bill stared after his partner for a moment, considering what he had said. He knew that the time machine would be dangerous for humans, but what about little animals like hamsters? There wouldn't be nearly the same repercussions if something were to go wrong, after all...

Bill stood in the middle of the science lab, a silent battle raging in his mind. After a moment, he picked up the phone and pressed redial.

"Hello?" the same man asked.

"Yes, it's Bill Hawks speaking," Bill said. "Gowan Industries was interested in buying the technology behind our time machine?"

"Indeed, we are," the spokesman answered eagerly. "Have you considered our proposal?"

"Yes, and we have decided to accept," Bill lied.

"Excellent!" exclaimed the spokesman. "How long will it be until you can run a test on a human?"

Bill hesitated. "Yes, about that," he said gruffly. "Does it necessarily _have_ to be a human? Would a small animal, a hamster or a lab rat maybe, do?"

The spokesman clucked his tongue in a reproving manner. "Now, now, Mr. Hawks, when we say we want a human test subject, we _want_ a human test subject."

"Yes, but any living thing should work just as well, shouldn't it?" asked Bill.

"And there, Mr. Hawks, is where you are wrong. We need this test subject to be human. That way, we can be _sure_ that this time machine of yours isn't a hoax – which it isn't, of course," the spokesman added quickly. "Still, we need cold, hard proof, and it is very difficult to ask a lab rat whether they actually travelled through time and get an answer from them."

"Yes, but–" Bill tried to interject.

The spokesman's voice, once jovial, now turned suddenly deadly. "Are you trying to weasel out of conducting this test, Mr. Hawks? Is your time machine a fake?"

Bill bristled at this. "Of course not!" he exclaimed.

"Well, then, there surely couldn't be any issues with using a human test subject, should there?" the spokesman asked. "So, what will it be, Mr. Hawks?"

Bill hesitated, weighing his options. What really could go wrong with the time machine, anyway? It _worked_, didn't it? That was all that mattered – Dimitri was just being a deadbeat. Claire, he was sure, would be on his side if she were here, for she had often discussed the possibility of sending a human through time. And to the tune of seven million pounds, he and his partners would be set for life.

"I'll conduct the test by the end of the week," he told the spokesman.

Bill could practically picture the smile of the spokesman on the other end as he said, "Of course you will, Mr. Hawks."

**-X-X-X-**

A few days later, Claire and Bill stood in their rented lab. It was time for the promised test, and Bill felt the familiar fluttering of butterflies in his stomach. He had a bad feeling that something was going to happen, and he didn't like that feeling. He wondered if Claire sensed his nervousness, but no, she seemed quite pleased that she would be the first person to ever travel through time. At the very least, she had a large, ridiculous smile on her face and seemed impervious to the patches of sweat beneath his arms.

"Ready, Claire?" Bill asked gruffly.

Claire nodded. "Where's Dimitri?" she asked, looking around the lab expectantly. "I called him earlier, but he wasn't home–"

"You called him?" Bill asked sharply.

Startled, Claire replied, "Yes, of course. I wanted to ask him if he would be here for the test."

All the more reason to get this over with, then.

"He's out of town," Bill lied. "Family emergency. Now, shall we conduct the test?"

"Of course, Bill," Claire replied, stepping inside the time machine and closing the door. "Good luck."

"Good luck," Bill echoed, his mouth suddenly going very dry. He stepped up to the panel of levers and buttons that operated the time machine. Entering in a random date, he asked, "Ready?"

"Yes," Claire called, her voice sounding faint from within the time machine. "Throw the switch."

Bill's hand hovered above the lever, shaking violently. He swallowed the growing lump in his throat, trying to force himself to hit the lever that activated the time machine. Now that he was faced with the moment of truth, Bill wasn't sure if he could go through with it. What if something went wrong? What if the time machine didn't work on living things? What if it did, but Claire was stuck in the future with no way to get back?

Bill closed his eyes, gritted his teeth, and threw the switch.

Nothing.

Bill opened his eyes. The time machine remained intact in front of him, although he wasn't sure if it had worked or not.

"Claire?" he called.

And then the world around him was wrenched apart with a loud, sickening explosion. The force of it sent him flying backward and into the wall, knocking the wind from him and splintering his ribs. Bill slid to the floor, the pain in his sides almost unbearable. Smoke filled the room, stung his eyes, made him cough, which sent pain shooting through his lungs. Darkness closed in on him, and just before Bill passed out, he thought he heard Dimitri call Claire's name.

And then he was gone.

**-X-X-X-**

He woke up hours later in a gleaming white room. At first, he was confused. He didn't know where he was, or what he was doing. His throat was parched, and his mouth was bone dry. He tried to sit up, but pain shot through his ribs, forcing him to collapse back onto his bed, moaning. His vision was blurry, for someone had removed his glasses. He didn't dare reach out to try to find him.

He heard someone shift beside him. "Bill? Bill, are you awake?"

He knew that voice.

"D-Dimitri?" he murmured, turning his head to the right. He saw a blurry blob that may or may not have been his partner. Then, with sudden clarity, the memories of what had just transgressed hit him. He must have been in a hospital, and his ribs must have been broken, he reasoned. But those were not the least of his concerns. "What happened? Where's Claire?"

He heard a rustle as Dimitri stood and walked away, out of his vision. Bill didn't dare to sit up and follow his progress.

"The time machine exploded, Bill," Dimitri said, and his voice sounded oddly expressionless and blank. "You're in the hospital. You broke three ribs, cracked two others. You set the whole building on fire. Ten people died because of you, Bill."

"And... And Claire?" Bill croaked.

"Claire – Claire died," Dimitri answered, his voice and facade breaking.

Dimitri might as well have punched Bill in the gut. But his next words were even worse.

"You killed her, you son of a bitch," Dimitri spat at him, yet his voice sounded choked, as if he were suppressing tears.

Bill thought he could feel tears in his own eyes. "I'm so sorry, Dimitri. I didn't mean for it to happen–"

"Don't apologize to me," Dimitri yelled at him. "Don't you _dare_ apologize."

Bill ignored him and continued, "I thought it was safe. I wouldn't have done it otherwise."

"Yes, you would have," Dimitri retorted. "You couldn't resist it, could you? You were always greedy, Bill. Seven million pounds outweighed Claire's life, and all the lives that were lost tonight because of you."

Bill could feel tears trickled down his cheeks. "Dimitri, that's not how it is–"

"Of course it's like that," Dimitri spat.

"Take all the money," Bill said suddenly. He wasn't sure what made him say it – maybe the pain, or the grief, or the regret now gnawing at his heart.

Dimitri stopped short. "What did you just say?"

"Take the damn money," Bill said, his voice strengthened slightly. "I don't want it."

Before he knew it, Dimitri had grabbed him by the front of his shirt. If Bill was wearing his glasses, he was sure that Dimitri's angry face would only be inches from his own.

"And you think I do?" Dimitri asked, his voice hushed and full of a lethal hatred. "I won't have any part of that money. Not. One. Cent. It was paid for with blood and the lives of Claire and nine innocents. All that money should go to where it belongs – the bastard who murdered her and them."

Dimitri released the front of Bill's shirt and stalked away. Bill heard a door slam shut, and then, he was sure, Dimitri was gone.

Bill closed his eyes, but the tears continued to flow down his cheeks. He hadn't meant for any of this to happen. He hadn't wanted anyone to die. He wished that he could use that stupid time machine to stop the explosion from ever happening.

And as he lay there in the hospital room, Bill realized that his hunger for fortune was satisfied, but he had lost something much more valuable to him in the process: his respect for himself.

**-X-X-X-**

Bill might not have been able to use the time machine to erase the incident, but that was where the fortune he had acquired came into play. A few well-placed bribes stopped the investigation into the time machine, and another to stop the media from digging into the explosion. Bill wouldn't admit it to anyone, least of all to himself, that he was suffering from the typical mentality of a two-year-old: If I can't see them, they can't see me. If the accident remained buried away, hidden in a dusty filing cabinet at the Scotland Yard, then Bill wouldn't have to confront the knowledge of what he had done, what his newfound fortune had cost.

Yet of course, he couldn't deal with his conscience.

The knowledge that he had caused the deaths of ten people for mere millions haunted his every waking hour. After his release from the hospital, Bill couldn't even consider himself a member of the scientific community anymore. Scientists didn't sell themselves to corporations and kill innocent civilians in the process. So he turned to a new circle, a new beginning in the world of politics. After all, some of the most corrupt people in the world were politicians. He should have felt right at home.

Yes, politicians were a generally corrupt bunch. But none of them had ever murdered anyone.

Bill knew that what Dimitri had said the very last time he saw him would haunt him for the rest of his life. This new start, his new career as a politician had been bought for by the blood of nine strangers and own of his own colleagues.

And no matter what anyone thought, Bill would regret his decision until the day he died.


	3. The Scientist

**Wisdombrook34: Thanks. :) I haven't really read a lot of Professor Layton fics, but I'm sure there are much better ones out there. Still, I'm glad you love it.**

**PleasedAnon: **_**Yes**_**. That, right there, was what I was going for. Except for the fact that I might have made you like Bill a bit. That was kind of an accident. I just wanted people to understand him. I know what you mean tfhough, about how everyone labels Bill as a greedy, evil criminal. It's like that with a lot of villains. People hate them unconditionally, for no reason except they're villains, without realizing there's a lot more to them. Bugs me so much. -_-**

**Dana: Yeah, I know, there's not a lot of Dimitri fics. I think I've seen, what, one or two of them? Granted, I'm not in the PL fandom a lot. But that's still a pitiful amount.**

**Okay, so here's Dimitri's chapter. I had a huge mental struggle all the way through trying not to misspell his name. I'm not going to lie, I **_**hate**_** the way the game spells it. I have always ****seen it spelled Dmitri, not Dimitri, and the first time I read it in the game's script, I was like, "Oh, well, that's just a typo." Except it wasn't. And it slowly but surely drove me insane for the rest of the game. Aside from that though, I quite like Dimitri. Especially his fedora. I want it. Badly. :)**

**For you Layton/Claire lovers, there is some of it in here. But it's also got the added bonus of the whole Dimitri/Layton/Claire love triangle. (Yes, we're avoiding Don Paolo. I love him and his crazy hair, but really, he has no place in this fiveshot.) I'm giving a bit more substance to one of the cutscenes in the game, and if you know which one I'm referring to, you get a free cup of tea.**

**As for my attempt at making an in-depth comment on this, a lot of this one-shot (especially the beginning) is based off my own feelings when I read 1984. If you've read it, you'll remember how the government uses a traitor's worst fears against them – for example, rats eating your face, which is just gross and doesn't really scare me that much. If you haven't, you wouldn't know that. But it raises a good question: What's your greatest fear? So this one-shot is basically exploring Dimitri's worst fear. Which sounds kind of Poe-esque, but it isn't really. If that makes sense. Okay, I'm going to shut up now and let you read this.**

* * *

**The Scientist**

What do you fear the most?

Are you afraid of the dark, of monsters that hide in the shadows and cease to exist at sunrise, of the things that go bump in the night? Are you afraid of the heat and ferocity of fire, ready to eat you alive? Are you afraid of the icy, crushing black depths of the unforgiving sea? Are you afraid of the mystery of death and the afterlife? Are you afraid of life?

Dimitri asked himself these questions quite frequently. He had many fears, some childish, some rational. But there was no fear that stuck out in his mind of being his worst, and what, after all, was the criteria that qualified what your worst fear was? Was it the fear you couldn't face, or the one you challenged every day to try to beat? The fear that rooted you to the spot, or the one that set you running as far away as you could? Or was it the fear that could break you of anything and everything you held dear?

Dimitri didn't know. But it never stopped him from wondering.

**-X-X-X-**

At first he thought it was the fear of being alone.

He was a successful physicist, but theorizing on the feasibility of time travel was not exactly the best way to "pick up chicks." All it really did was invoke ridicule from all sides, and the occasional blank, "That's nice." His friends consisted of a host of other physicists, who also theorized on the feasibility of time travel and who were also generally unsuccessful in the dating department of their lives. They were mostly middle-aged or older men, but Dimitri never clicked with any of them. He had never clicked with anyone, really. Maybe that was part of his problem – Dimitri had set high standards for anyone that came into his life, standards that would be nigh impossible to keep up.

Then he met Claire.

It had been a sort of accident, really. There was a physicist convention in London or some such that his colleague and fellow time-traveling enthusiast Bill had dragged him to, and while they were there, one of Bill's old professor introduced them to a young, pretty brunette.

"This is Claire Barker," Bill's old professor had said, gesturing to his companion. "Claire, I would like you to meet Dimitri Allen and Bill Hawks."

They all shook hands.

"Claire here is an up and coming physicist herself," said Bill's old professor, whose name Dimitri thought might have been Edward. "She's very skilled, you know."

Claire blushed. "Oh, not _really_," she said humbly. "I'm nothing compared to the two of you."

"You've heard of us?" Bill asked gruffly.

"Oh, yes, of course," Claire said, nodding eagerly. "You're the two who are trying to build a time machine, aren't you?"

"That's us, yes," Dimitri replied, bracing himself for the "you're crazy" speech that he had long since grown accustomed to.

"I'm quite interested in time travel myself, you know," Claire told them. "I think it's simply fascinating."

Edward groaned. "Not _you_, too," he said incredulously to Claire.

Dimitri's curiosity, however, was piqued. "You're interested in time travel?" he asked, not quite believing that a young woman like Claire had any sort of interest in the subject.

Claire nodded and resettled her glasses on her nose. "Very interested."

Dimitri and Bill exchanged silent glances. They knew each other so well that they had a small, silent conference without saying a word.

_What do you think? _Dimitri asked him. _She might be of some use, and besides, we could use some fresh insight on the project._

_She might, _conceded Bill. _Edward talks about her quite frequently. Top of her class, apparently._

_Should we offer her a position?_

_Why not?_

Dimitri and Bill turned to Claire in unison.

"Would you like to join us in our time machine project?" Dimitri asked.

Claire's face split into a radiant smile. "Of course, Mr. Allen," she said. "Of course I would."

**-X-X-X-**

Then he thought it was the fear of rejection.

Somewhere in the several weeks that followed, Dimitri fell in love with Claire. He wasn't exactly sure when it happened. Maybe during the hours they spent together in the lab, poring over the design of the time machine. Maybe during the lunches they took together, sometimes with Bill, sometimes just the two of them, whenever hunger interrupted their hours of research. But regardless of when it happened, Dimitri soon realized that he was fully and completely in love with her.

He relished every moment that he and Claire spent together, and when they weren't, he wasn't able to sit still. He paced his apartment, sat down to watch TV, turned it off after thirty seconds, tried to read a book, then shut that too. All he could think of was Claire. He loved her soft laughter, the way she scrunched her nose whenever she encountered a problem, the way she smiled. Especially when she smiled.

He should have been able to work up the courage to ask her out, but Dimitri was afraid. His past experiences did not lead him to think that he would be successful if he were to undertake the endeavour. It would cause a lot of unneeded awkwardness between them, and even though Dimitri suspected that Claire felt the same way about him, he couldn't be sure. There was no real proof, just conjecture, and as every good scientist knows, theories are just theories until there's concrete evidence to back it up.

One night, about a month after he had meet Claire, she and Dimitri were staying late at the lab. Bill had left early for a family function, much to his chagrin (something to do with his in-laws, whom Dimitri knew were not the most pleasant people to get along with). They worked in silence, the ticking clock on the wall the only indicator of the passage of time. At around nine o'clock, Claire stood up and said, "I'd better get home. See you tomorrow, Dimitri."

Dimitri looked up from his work, disappointment pooling in the pit of his stomach. "Of course, Claire," he said.

Claire slipped into her jacket and crossed the room. She stopped at the door, her hand on the knob, and she turned to look at him, a look of anguish flickering across her face that Dimitri couldn't help but giddily notice.

"Dimitri, may I ask you something?" she inquired.

"Of course, Claire," Dimtri said, eagerly sliding away the pages of notes that he had been writing and standing up. He circled around the desk toward her and asked, "What is it?"

Claire blushed. Dimitri's heart leaped. Was she about to do what he thought she was about to do?

"I have a friend, a close friend, who I think I've fallen in love with," Claire began, awkwardly playing with the strap of her purse. "I'm not quite sure what to do."

Dimitri's spirits promptly fell. "Oh," he said coolly.

"I want to ask him out," Claire continued, ignoring his sudden frostiness.

"Why don't you, then?" Dimitri asked, unable to keep a trace of bitterness from his face.

Claire blushed even more. "It. . . It would be awkward," she replied. "I don't think I can ask him face-to-face."

In the span of about fifteen seconds, Dimitri's heart had soared, broken, and then healed instantly and rocketed back up even higher. Was she talking about him? Was she using anonymity to hide the fact that she was secretly in love with him?

"Well, if you can't ask him in person, write a letter," Dimitri suggested, amazed that his brain could still function perfectly even when he felt a sort of giddy excitement swamping him.

Claire bit her lip, an endearing habit of hers. "I. . . I think that might work, Dimitri," she said after a pause, smiling at him. "Thank you. See you tomorrow."

"See you," Dimitri answered, watching her leave the lab and close the door. Then, humming cheerfully to himself, he cleaned up the lab for the night before leaving himself, fully expecting to see a letter on his desk tomorrow morning.

**-X-X-X-**

The next day, Claire came in to the lab late. Dimitri, who saw no envelope anywhere in the vicinity, could not help but feel a little disjointed. He quickly forgot about that when Claire gave him a fierce, strong hug.

"What's this about?" Dimitri couldn't help but ask.

"Your advice, Dimitri! It was perfect!" Claire exclaimed happily, still holding him.

All emotion seemed to drain out of Dimitri's body.

"My. . . advice?" he echoed, suddenly afraid of where this was going.

"Yes! Your advice from last night," Claire reminded him, finally releasing him. "It didn't work _exactly_ as planned, but given the circumstances, I think it was excellent. After work, Hershel and I are going out for dinner. Isn't it _marvellous_?"

Dimitri was stunned. He felt as if he'd just been punched in the stomach, with all the wind knocked out of him. He felt like curling up in the corner, and he felt like ripping down the walls around him at the same time. Dimitri wasn't sure what to do, but it seemed that Claire wanted him to agree with her.

"Yes," he managed to choke out.

Claire actually kissed him on the cheek. "I feel so giddy," she said happily. "Thank you so much, Dimitri. If it wasn't for you, I don't think I would have ever worked up the courage."

It was then that Dimitri decided what his greatest fear was: Losing the love of his life.

**-X-X-X-**

Dimitri threw himself into his work after the incident with Claire. He treated her with a sort of cool detachment but, caught up as she was with that Layton fellow she was dating, she never seemed to notice, not for the weeks, then the months that stretched on. All the same, he remained hopelessly in love with her, torn between his hope that she would realize her mistake and come around to him and the knowledge that he had to move on.

About a year and a half after the incident, the time machine was almost completed. Their initial tests were positive, and Dimitri felt that the time machine might actually work. (Although it wasn't ready for human use yet, he had half-brained fantasies of using it to prevent Layton and Claire from ever meeting.) Bill had insisted that they publish their findings in a scientific journal, and that was when the trouble started.

At first, Dimitri had brushed off the call from Gowan Industries. Sell the time machine's technology and risk a human life? Not bloody likely. Bill certainly wouldn't do it, and neither would Claire, Dimitri was sure.

Unfortunately, he was sadly mistaken.

He didn't realize just how sadly mistaken he was until he had received a message from Claire. He had taken a couple of days off from work and had just gotten back from the bookstore when he noticed his answering machine blinking red, signalling a call. He pushed a button and began to take out his books as the message played.

"Hello, Dimitri, it's Claire."

Dimitri dropped a hardcover book the size of a large brick on his foot at the sound of Claire's name. He rushed to the answering machine, eagerly wondering if this was the news that he had been waiting for. Had Claire finally broken up with that Layton fellow? Did she need a shoulder to cry on?

"I'm just leaving mine and Hershel's place," Claire continued, "and I'm on my way over to the lab for our test today at four."

Dimitri felt his momentary elation sucked right out of him. Then he quickly did a double-take. Test? There was no test scheduled for today. He would have been told–

"To be honest, I can't believe you've consented to using the time machine on a human," Claire continued, and with sudden, horrible clarity, Dimitri realized just why he hadn't been told of this test. "I wanted to talk to you about that, but I guess you're already at the lab. I'll see you there."

The message ended with a beep, and Dimitri stood stock still in the middle of his kitchen as the full meaning of what he had just heard sunk in. He glanced at the clock – it was already five past four.

Dimitri turned and ran.

As he ran, he wondered what Bill and Claire were thinking. What they were doing was akin to committing suicide. What if he got there, and he was too late? What if something went wrong? What if Claire–

Dimitri killed the thought before it formed. He wouldn't think about that. He _couldn't_ think about that. He just needed to get to the lab before something terrible happened.

He made it to the lab in record time. Dimitri stopped at the corner of the street, panting, gazing up at the building that housed the lab. Nothing seemed to be wrong. He almost allowed himself to breathe a sigh of relief at the complete ordinariness of the scene.

Then there was the sound of an explosion, and the street shook slightly. Smoke billowed out of the lab's window, and before he even registered what was going on, Dimitri was running into the building and up the stairs. He burst into the lab, panting, ignoring the searing heat and the acrid smoke that scorched his lungs. In the gloom and smoke of the room, DImitri couldn't see very clearly. He thought he saw Bill slumped against the wall, but his eyes were on the time machine, which was the source of smoke and fire in the corner of the room.

Without even a thought for his own safety, Dimitri plunged in. He ignored the heat of the metal beneath his fingers and wrenched the doors open.

"Claire?" he called. "Claire!"

In the darkness, he saw Claire's motionless body on the floor of the time machine. He pulled her out, desperately feeling for a pulse, for any sign of life. Nothing. No pulse, no breathing, _nothing_.

"Dammit!" he whispered, his eyes beginning to fill with tears. "Wake up, Claire. Wake _up_."

Claire's eyes remained closed.

Dimitri felt the tears begin to trickle down his cheeks, and he stroked her hair, whispering quietly, "I'm so sorry, Claire. I'm so sorry. I could have prevented this. It's my fault. It's all my fault."

In the distance, Dimitri thought he could hear sirens. He ignored them. He bent over Claire, as if to protect her from the smoke and the flames that lazily licked the sides of the room. He whispered into her ear, "I failed you, Claire. I'm so sorry."

And in the smoke-scorched remnants of the lab, Dimitri finally realized what his greatest fear was.

Failure.

And he had failed the one woman he loved.


	4. The Child

**Eleven reviews since my last update? I love all you people. 8D**

**bells-mannequin: Yeah, I didn't get what the deal was with there being barely any Bill Hawks in it. The corrupt politician/major villain of the game gets maybe a minute of screen time? What?**

**rArXdiNo3: If I actually had a choice between stealing Dimitri's fedora or Layton's top hat, I'd have to take the fedora. -is shot- I'm way too tall to wear a top hat, though, that might explain it. As for Clive's chapter, I'm not exactly sure if it's shocking, but I hope you enjoy it nonetheless.**

**WriterCat: I actually had a debate with myself over whether or not to write this in first person. On the one hand, it makes it more effective, but on the other end, the POV changes every chapter might get confusing (plus I suck at writing first person anyway), so I opted for the third. Thank you for reviewing. :)**

**Okay, so I took my sweet time updating. And I didn't get this finished before my actually-difficult semester started. That annoys me, but basketball will be ending within the next few weeks, so I'll at least have some more free time to finish soon. :)**

**As promised, here is Clive's chapter. I love this guy, and even though he's a villain (no matter his motive, he **_**did**_** kidnap Bill Hawks and scientists, force the aforementioned scientists into the "future London", tricked them into thinking they were ten years in the future and had to work on a time machine to get themselves home, then made most of those scientists work on an evil mobile fortress that Clive later used to destroy quite a piece of London), he's one of those rare, self-redemptive villains that there really should be more of. And although Clive might not be my **_**favourite**_** villain (Dahlia Hawthorne for the win!) he's definitely in my top ten.**

**This one-shot is a bit larger in scope than the others. Whereas they merely dealt with the cause and the events before the time machine's explosion, this one deals more with the actual event and the aftermath. And it also introduces Clive's adoptive "mother," Constance Dove, and the reason why she adopted him in the first place. As a terrible judge of my own work, I'm not sure how well I did with this, but I seem to be doing well in your eyes so far, so I hope I don't disappoint.**

* * *

**The Child**

There comes at least one time in everyone's life when their perfect, well-constructed worlds are shaken to their very foundations by some horrible tragedy or injustice, when the very universe seems to crumble down around them. These are the defining moments of a person's life, these make-it-or-break it moments, that send one spiralling into the bottomless abyss of human failure, insanity, and despair.

Some never stop falling. Many manage to claw their way out and pick up the pieces. And then there are those deluded few, the ones who mistake up for down, who believe they are pulling themselves out of the void, but are only falling more quickly and deeply than they could ever have imagined.

And really, that was how it all began for Clive, although he didn't quite understand what was happening at the time. Standing in the chaotic street, fighting against the subduing grip of a stranger, the whole thing had a sense of bizarre surrealism, like a strange dream that he would soon wake up from. Only Clive knew that it was no dream. The terror was real, and the flames that were devouring his home, his life, and his future with brutal savageness was real, as real as the asphalt beneath his feet and the wailing sirens that blasted through the smoky air.

Clive wasn't exactly sure how he had ended up in the street, or why his home was on fire. According to his simple, childish logic, the building had spontaneously burst into flames as he'd been going up the stairs. Well-versed in the rules of fire escape, he'd turned and headed back down the stairs at his first glimpse of the flames, out through the front doors and into the street that was already beginning to fill with panicked spectators. Clive expected his parents, who had been up in the apartment packing, to join him soon, but when the fire department and several ambulances had arrived with no sign of them, he had grown more and more anxious.

Then he had seen the stretchers.

There were three of them being loaded into one of the ambulance, covered with white sheets. One was slightly singed from the flames. Clive could see the outlines of people beneath the sheets, in the way they bunched together, rose, and fell, defining a nose, a mouth, feet. The repugnant smell of burnt flesh greeted his nose, and Clive, in a sudden revelation, realized what was beneath those sheets.

Past fire fighters and paramedics, through detached reporters and hysterical civilians, Clive had woven unnoticed toward the burning building in a slow, almost dreamlike fashion, not quite realizing what he was doing or the consequences of his actions. Smoke billowed out of the windows, lazily rolling across the sky in great black plumes, stinging Clive's eyes and throat, but he kept running, feeling as if some other force was controlling his legs. He almost reached the door when someone grabbed him by the back of the shirt, subduing him.

Clive, hysterical with fear, could only think about how _needed_ to get inside, how he _needed_ to find his family. He struggled madly in the stranger's grip as he was hauled backward down the street, away from the scene of destruction and chaos unfolding in what had once been his home.

"I need to go back!" Clive screamed, the tears pouring freely down his face now as he pulled against the stranger's grip. "My parents are still inside!"

Clive hadn't quite registered that fact until he spoke it aloud, the words horrible and so tangible that he could almost reach out and touch them. The true meaning of those words hit him with brutal force, and as if on cue, the top floor of the building collapsed in on itself. The panic-stricken bystanders let out screams of fear and dismay as the fire department began to withdraw its personnel.

"Let me go!" Clive screamed, trying to wrench free of the stranger's grip. "I have to find them before – before–"

"Pull yourself together, boy!" the stranger admonished him, tightening his grasp on Clive. "If you go back in there, you'll die too!"

"_Don't say that_!" Clive screamed, turning to attack the stranger, to force him to let go. It was only then that he got a good look at the top-hatted man who was so effectively subduing him. His ash-smudged face was oddly blank of emotion, except for his tear-filled eyes. Whether his tears were a result of the smoke, or from the grief that was already beginning to gnaw away at Clive's heart, Clive couldn't be sure. Either way, he stopped in his tracks and stared up at the stranger in shock.

"I'm. . . I'm sorry," the stranger murmured, a flicker of regret in his eyes, and it was only then that Clive noticed the man's voice shaking slightly. "I shouldn't have said that."

Clive felt his lower lip tremble, and there was a great groaning as another floor collapsed. "My parents," he whispered. "We. . . We were supposed to go on vacation. To the countryside." He had no idea why he was telling the stranger this – maybe the tears in the man's eyes had startled it out of him.

The man closed his eyes for a moment, his expression pained.

"They'd been saving for years," Clive murmured, feeling like he was babbling. "Years and years. We were going to leave tomorrow morning."

"Sh," whispered the man softly. "Don't think about that right now."

The whole building was beginning to collapse onto itself now, its groaning long, continuous, sickening. Clive turned to face the building, and the man instinctively tightened his grip on the young boy. Clive didn't want to run to the building – he was rooted to the spot as he watched his apartment begin to crumble in front of his very eyes. There was still no sign of his parents.

And that was when Clive knew.

He turned to run, to flee from the horrible, unchangeable truth of death, but there was nowhere to turn except into the front of the stranger's slightly singed, tea-scented shirt. He buried his face in the man's shirt to stifle the tears that began to well up in his eyes and burned his throat. At first, Clive thought that he was trembling solely from the effort of suppressing tears. It took him a very, very long time to realize that the stranger, too, was crying silently even as he tried to comfort Clive. When he finally spoke, however, the tremor in his voice gave him away.

"I'm so sorry," the stranger whispered. No hopeless, unfounded optimism, that life would continue as normal. Not for Clive, not for himself, not for the bystanders who flooded the street. This stranger knew, just as Clive knew, as the survivors would come to know, that their loved ones were dead, lost to them forever, and they would never be able to change that fact.

"My parents are. . ." Clive whimpered, but he couldn't bring himself to finish the terrible sentence.

It was only then that Clive surrendered himself to the tears that had been building in his eyes as he wept for his parents, and for how narrowly he himself had avoided death, in the comforting embrace of a stranger.

**-X-X-X-**

In the weeks following the explosion (it took Clive a long time to figure out what the cause of the fire was, although he and everyone else were still murky on the details) he was only a ghost of himself, an empty shell that went through the motions of life, haunted by memories and regrets. The psychologist who had been assessing the survivors of the explosion called it "survivor's guilt." Clive called it sadness. Such a simple, childish word, barely basic enough to cover the pain and grief that racked him day and night, yet there were no words to convey just how he felt. Clive had, truly, fallen into the infamous, bottomless abyss.

He might never have stopped if it hadn't been for Constance.

**-X-X-X-**

Constance Dove was an elderly lady who lived in the British countryside, the kindly widow of a banker and, therefore, the owner of a large wallet. She also happened to be Clive's new guardian, and the saving branch that his flailing hands had grasped before he fell any further.

At first, Clive's social worker had been pessimistic on the odds of Clive being adopted. As the social worker had pointed out, "nobody wants to adopt a smartass thirteen-year-old" (not that Clive was a smartass – that was just the stigma that teenagers carried). Yet, a month after the explosion, Clive found himself being led into a large, picturesque country mansion (his "new home") by the elderly Constance.

"I suppose you would like to see your room," Constance said, not as a question, but rather a statement as she led him through several fancy, crammed rooms. "It might be a little musty; it hasn't been used in years. And, if you don't like the furniture, we can redecorate it. If you feel up to it, of course."

After they climbed an ornate staircase, Constance stopped at the door at the top of the stairs. She opened it and stepped aside so that Clive could see his new accommodations. It was a fairly large, spacious room, but there were toys and books scattered all over the floor, slightly dusty from lack of use. The bookshelf, the desk, and the bed, on the other hand, had the too-clean look of a last minute dusting. The bedspread and curtains, freshly-changed, were a matching blue. It was a small photo, however, that caught Clive's gaze; a picture of an unmistakeable but much younger Constance, a man who could have only been her late husband, and a young boy of about Clive's own age.

"Dinner should be ready in about half an hour," Constance said, patting Clive absentmindedly on the arm. "You settle in here. Feel free to do whatever you want until then."

Constance gave him a warm, reassuring smile before padding back downstairs. Clive set his lone suitcase on the floor and walked over to the picture to examine it better. On closer inspection, Clive could discern some of Constance's features in the boy – they had the same smile, the same large eyes, the same curly, untameable hair. He could only have been her son. The little family stood in front of a lit Christmas tree, with evergreen boughs, ribbons, and blinking lights everywhere, their smiles large and brilliant. Clive could feel the love and joy radiating from behind the slightly smudged glass.

He didn't realize how long he stood there until he heard the door open. "Clive, it's time for. . ." Constance trailed off as she stuck her head into the room and saw what Clive was looking at. "Dinner," she said finally, glancing at the picture frame.

Clive turned to look at her, opening his mouth to ask the question that was on the tip of his tongue. There was a flicker of something nameless in her eyes, and he faltered. He sensed that Constance didn't want to talk about the picture, so he held his tongue.

"Okay," he mumbled instead, padding out the door. Although he couldn't be sure, he thought he heard Constance sigh softly as she closed the door.

**-X-X-X-**

Constance was a bubbly, energetic woman, despite her age and numerous ailments. Under her care, Clive slowly began to heal. Not quickly, not right away, not fully and completely, just a little bit. But it was progress, and Clive found himself come to love Constance as he would love a grandmother or an elderly aunt. She was no replacement for either of his parents, but she was certainly better than nothing.

Still, despite the presence of Constance, Clive, the husband and wife who worked for Constance, and the clutter that infected the whole house, the mansion had a hollow, empty feeling to it, an ambiance that went deeper than the many unused rooms and the ridiculous amount of space. It permeated not only the house, but those inside it. The emptiness was integral to the everyday life of its occupants, as if it were the sole reason for their existence. Clive wasn't entirely sure what caused it, but he thought that he had a pretty good idea that it involved the family in the photo.

His guess was further enforced by the fact that the boy was never discussed. Constance's husband would be mentioned in passing, but never their son. In the clutter of the house, there was not one other picture of him besides the one on Clive's dresser. He wanted desperately to ask Constance about him, and why he was never mentioned. Was he a shame to the family? Did he grow up as a criminal? Or did Constance simply just not _like_ her son? (Clive doubted this; Constance liked everyone.) He knew that, whatever it was, the subject of Constance's son must be painful – still, the question gnawed away at him incessantly, until finally, he had to ask.

He chose a quiet moment, when he and Constance were alone. Constance was sitting in her rocking chair by the fireplace, wrapped in a blanket as she read, while Clive, pretending to do his homework, kept glancing up at her, trying to work up the nerve to ask the question that was burning at the tip of his tongue.

"Is the boy in that photo your son?"

The vague question, spoken in an almost inaudible whisper, seemed to almost slip out of Clive. The first thing he thought when he heard himself ask the question was, in a sudden panic, _Please don't let her have heard that. _But Constance, sharp as ever, looked up, lips pursed, eyes slightly narrowed as she looked at Clive. She contemplated him for a few minutes, then, quietly, without request for clarification, answered, "My son."

_So, _Clive thought, _I was right._

Constance folded the corner of the page in her book so that she could return to it, then closed the book and turned in her seat to face Clive. Her eyes were sad, but she looked businesslike as she said to him, "His name was James. He was a sweet little boy, very adventurous, very active. Then there was the accident at the local school."

"The one I go to?" asked Clive, a bit confused.

Constance shook her head. "The original school," she corrected him. "The one you attend now is a replacement."

"What happened?" Clive inquired, unable to stop his curiosity from getting the best of him.

"Two students were fooling around with lighters in the hallway during class time," Constance began, closing her eyes momentarily as if to recall the incident. "The whole school was a firetrap. The government was trying to decide whether or not to close the school at the time. Anyway, the school caught fire. A few people died in the fire. . ." Constance's voice trailed off.

Clive could guess who one of those people was.

Constance fingered the arm of her rocking chair and rocked gently back and forth. Quietly, she pressed on, "The students were never reprimanded. The loss of James was made all the more devastating by that, and by the fact that I had just lost my husband to a heart attack about a year before. Without him, I didn't know what to do. I survived, but it was never the same after the accident."

"Constance. . ." Clive said, alarmed to see tears in Constance's eyes. "Are you okay?"

"Maybe that's why, as soon as I heard about the explosion, I was so intent on adopting you," Constance continued, more to herself than to Clive, ignoring his question completely. "When it happened, you were the same age as James. . ."

Clive could feel tears beginning to well up in his own eyes. He stood, crossed the room, and hugged Constance. There hadn't been much affectionate, physical contact between the two throughout the past few years, but Clive tried to convey everything he was feeling into that hug: his sympathy, his gratitude, his admiration, the fact that he would never leave her like James.

In his embrace, Clive could sense her frailty, and with a shock, he realized that Constance was _old_. He had known, of course, that she was old, but she had always struck him as more of an eccentric middle-aged woman with white hair than the actual, ailing senior she was. It suddenly occurred to him that he might never have the opportunity to leave her, that she might leave him – and the world – sooner than either one of them wanted.

Constance patted him absently on the arm, and after a moment of silence, she asked in true Constance-fashion, "Have you finished your homework yet?"

The moment finished, Clive returned to his books. But for the rest of the night, he couldn't shake the sense of foreboding and despair that had lingered after that one moment of understanding.

**-X-X-X-**

Knowledge did not equal acceptance. Clive learned that the hard way when Constance died two years later.

She slipped away in her sleep, according to the doctors. Natural causes. It meant nothing to Clive, except that Constance, the saving branch that he had caught a hold of after his parents' deaths, had snapped off in his grasp, sending him plummeting into the void again. He locked himself in his room for several days afterward, only emerging to use the bathroom and maybe nibble something before returning to solitude. The grief was mind-numbing, so much so that he spent most of his time lying on his bed, staring at the ceiling without taking notice of the tears that had soaked his face.

About a week after Constance's death, her lawyer (Clive hadn't even known she'd had a lawyer) came to discuss Constance's will (Clive hadn't known about the will, either). Her whole estate – a considerable sum of almost five million pounds – had been left to him. That was about all Clive, in his stunned and mourning state, could glean from the meeting. It was too much for him; the terrible loss, and the pathetic "compensation" that came with it, set him off crying again, and the lawyer had to hastily excuse himself for a prior engagement.

Two months later, Clive drove in to London for the first time in five years, for no particular reason. He needed to escape from the house, away from the emptiness that had only intensified since Constance had died, and it seemed only natural that he returned to his home town. He had no particular destination in mind, and merely drove around. It seemed almost natural that he should find himself on the street where he grew up, almost by accident, but it struck Clive that this had been his destination all along, and he just hadn't known until he'd arrived.

The buildings that had been damaged in the explosion had been repaired, and there was no sign of it having ever occurred. Clive wasn't sure what he'd been expecting – he'd had half an idea there might be a monument there to pay respect to the dead – but largely, the whole street seemed to be unchanged. He parked the car in front of what would have been his old apartment building. It and the neighbouring building, where the explosion had initially occurred, were the only things that had changed. Both had been completely torn down and rebuilt so that they looked cleaner and more modern than their neighbours.

A man with greying hair walked out of the condominium building that had replaced Clive's old home. Without quite knowing what he was doing, Clive climbed out of the car and called to the stranger, "Excuse me, but may I ask you a question?"

The man shot Clive a curious look but kept walking.

"Sir, I just have to ask. . . there was an explosion on this street about five years ago. Do you remember?" Clive pressed, hurrying after him.

"There was no explosion here," the man replied tersely, quickening his pace.

Clive ran after him so that he fell in step with him. "I'm sorry, sir, I really am, but you're mistaken. There was an explosion on this very street that destroyed two buildings. I know. I was. . ." He stopped, coughed, then added helplessly, "Five years ago."

"_I'm_ sorry, young man," he replied, drifting away from Clive and eyeing him as if he were mad, "but there was no explosion in London five years ago. I should know. I've worked as a reporter at _The London Sun _for the past ten years. Now, if you would excuse me, I have to get to work."

This statement left Clive standing in the middle of the sidewalk, rooted to the spot by disbelief, as the man hurried on. A reporter at one of London's largest newspapers hadn't known about the explosion? Hadn't it received any coverage at all? As Clive stood there, mulling this question over, he realized that even though he had been there at the time, he hadn't even known that it _was_ an explosion until he'd asked his social worker, who hadn't been able to give him any additional information.

It was then that Clive, remembering the fate of Constance's son James, was struck with a horrifying moment of realization. He climbed back into the car and drove himself to the headquarters of _The London Sun_, determined to do something – _anything_ – to find out if his hunch was correct.

When he entered the building, he walked determinedly up to the receptionist, cutting in front of about five people in line, and hit the desk with the flat of his palm. "I'd like to look through the _Sun's_ archives," he said to the receptionist, ignoring the protests from the people behind him.

She frowned up at him. "I'm afraid only employees of the _Sun_ are allowed to access our archives, sir," she replied stonily.

Clive stared at her, uncomprehending.

"I'm sorry, sir, but if that's all–"

Clive shook his head and said, quite firmly, as if that was his intention all along, "Then I'd like to apply for a position here."

**-X-X-X-**

When Clive left the headquarters of the _Sun_ ten minutes later, clutching an application form, he tried to tell himself that he was doing the right thing. In Clive's taxed mind, if he were to get the job at the _Sun_, he would be able to discover the cause of the explosion, and find out why it had been covered up, as it surely must have. He would be able to discover those responsible for the ten people, including his parents, who had lost their lives. He might even be able to drag the explosion up again after five years and punish the perpetrators of his misery. In his opinion, he had found a new branch to grasp, one that would enable him to climb out of the void he had fallen down for far too long.

But as Clive got into the car, a small part of him realized that he was still descending into the depths of the very abyss he believed he was climbing out of. He felt an urge to crumple up the application form and toss it out the window without taking it any further. He went so far as to lower the window and look out at the London street behind, the form clutched tightly in his hand.

Then Clive closed his car window and, carefully setting the application form on the passenger's seat, set off for home.


	5. The Lady

**Okay, so I put off finishing this for a really long time for various reasons (such as yet another basketball injury, my awful semester, and The Hunger Games) but most importantly because I wasn't sure what to write. I kept flitting from one idea to the next, but none of them worked out really well, and by the time I **_**did**_** get my muse back, I got halfway through and then started throwing up uncontrollably for twelve hours. Hopefully that's not reflective of the quality of the writing. :)**

**This one-shot's fairly simple. Originally I had envisioned this as a rewrite of the final goodbye between Claire and Layton, but then it struck me that was kind of the cheap way out and besides, when I write something romantic, it comes out as laughable garbage, so I should probably write something I can post without being mocked. I actually quite prefer this version over my original plan. I think it's more effective. It also answers some questions about what happened to Claire after she got shot ten years into the future, besides what happened in-game.**

**Also, off-topic, but getting the 3DS on Sunday. I'm so excited it's ridiculous. Especially for Professor Layton vs Ace Attorney, even though we know squat about it except that it'll be made of awesome. I mean, Layton and Phoenix, in the same game, in 3D? It's like holding magic in your fingers.**

**Enough shameless fangirling. The final instalment awaits!**

* * *

**The Lady**

"Ready?"

Sitting inside the dark time machine, her palms slick with sweat, her heart hammering painfully in her throat, she felt anything _but_ ready. But she wasn't going to admit that she was nervous. Not now, when she was about to make history.

Claire swallowed, tried to reply, but she seemed to have lost her voice. The walls of the time machine were closing in on her, oppressive, terrible, like an inescapable prison. Claire hadn't realized that she was claustrophobic before now. She ignored it, thrust her hand into her pocket, closed her fingers around the watch that Hershel had given her so long ago, swallowed, and finally managed to call back in answer.

"Yes, Bill. Throw the switch."

She closed her eyes, preparing herself for what would come next. She had been determined not to panic, but as she sat there in the dark, a number of worst-case scenarios flashed through her mind. Would the atoms in her body rip themselves apart, then reassemble when she reached the designated time stream? Would she feel pain? Could she die? That was certainly a risk, but there was risk in all scientific experiments, wasn't there? She could do this.

Then Hershel's face flashed through her mind, and Claire knew that she couldn't.

She reached for the time machine's door, trying to open it, to climb out before Bill could throw the switch. Someone else could make history. Claire just wanted out.

But her fingers did not close around the cool metal of the time machine's door handle. Instead, she felt the sleek cloth of a lab coat beneath her fingertips, and the darkness in the time machine had been replaced with harsh, artificial light. Disoriented, Claire blinked, looked up, and found herself gazing into Dimitri's face.

Only he wasn't the Dimitri that she remembered. This Dimitri was older, graver, his face more lined than it had been when she had seen him last. His hair was longer, greyer, too, if that was even possible. His expression was one of utter disbelief as he reached out and touched her face, almost as if to make sure that she was real.

"Di-Dimitri?" Claire stammered, unable to make the connection. "What. . . What are you doing here? Bill said–"

And then Dimitri was hugging her tightly, his body heaving with sobs. Shocked, Claire stared at the empty space over his shoulder while she tried to understand what exactly was happening. Had she really gone into the future? And why was Dimitri acting like this if she had? Shouldn't he be rejoicing because the time machine worked? But he would already have known that the time machine worked, because this _had_ to be the future, and when she went back to the present time, the first thing she would do was call him to let him know about their success.

It just didn't make any sense, and Claire was reduced to saying feebly, "Dimitri? What's wrong?"

Finally, Dimitri drew back so that she could see his tear-streaked face, but he didn't release her. It was as if he didn't want to let her go. No, Claire could see it in his eyes. He was _afraid_ to let her go.

"I can't believe it," Dimitri whispered, raising his eyes to the ceiling in thanks. "It worked. The time machine worked." His eyes lowered to her again, drinking in her face with a mixture of awe, joy, and, jarringly, sorrow. "And you're here."

Claire gazed at him blankly as his last three words sank in. "Where. . . Where am I supposed to be?"

Dimitri brushed a stray strand of hair out of Claire's eyes, as if to distract them both from the simple, awful truth that he uttered next.

"You're supposed to be dead."

**-X-X-X-**

Life is cruel. Claire had just never realized how cruel it could be until she was sentenced to die.

It would have been kinder if she'd been killed right away. Better to die before she knew what was happening than to realize just how much she wanted to live.

Claire spent hours thinking about it. She couldn't help it. Not when she spent most of her last days struggling with the idea of death, not when she put her hand in her pocket and her fingers brushed against the watch that Hershel had given her so long ago. The one thing she had left of her old life. Of him.

Once, Claire had spent two whole hours just sitting there, staring at it. It didn't work for more than a minute anymore. Maybe going ahead in time had broken it. She didn't know. What she did know was that it was certainly ironic. She held time in her hands, all the time in the world, and all she had needed was three seconds to get out of that time machine. All those nine other victims needed was three minutes, and they would have lived, too.

But it was too late for them. For her.

Sometimes she would stand for what felt like hours, gazing out windows or at walls, her mind reconstructing what must have happened after she had reached out for the door handle. An earth-shattering explosion, flames shooting up the walls, dark smoke billowing out of the window, people screaming and running in the streets. Whenever Dimitri came across her in those states, he would bring her back to earth, reminding her with a softness that masked his fury, "It wasn't your fault, Claire."

The first few times, she argued with him, tried to make him understand that it all wasn't just Bill's fault. It was _all_ their faults. They had tried to break the laws of nature, and as a result, innocents had died. The fact that it was Bill who had thrown the switch hadn't mattered, even if he'd done it to make himself rich. They had all had a hand in the destruction.

But Dimitri was adamant, and eventually, Claire stopped arguing with him. It was pointless; the man was in denial, still believed that the time machine could not only work, but that he could save her by solidifying her presence in the present. So that she wouldn't be forced back to her own time to die.

Claire knew there was nothing he could do. Deep down, she suspected he thought the same. She wished with all her heart, with every fibre of her being, that it wasn't the case. She regretted it, just as she regretted the deaths of those nine other people.

Just as she regretted not being able to say goodbye to Hershel.

**-X-X-X-**

Once Claire had realized what exactly had happened to her, she had wanted to find Hershel. Almost immediately after that, she had realized that doing so would be devastating for him. It wouldn't have been fair for her to contact him, not when she would only have to leave again. Claire had already witnessed the effect this knowledge had on Dimitri and herself. She didn't want to see how it would affect Hershel.

Still, she couldn't help but do some research on him. Claire became a woman obsessed, sitting in front of the computer for hours, sifting through pages and pages of information (and a couple of fan sites from his female students that had some disturbingly accurate information), but never learning much that she didn't already know. He was still very much the same man as he had been when Claire had left him for the last time; he was still teaching at Gressenheller, he loved tea and puzzles, that sort of thing. Occasionally, though, a gem of information would pop up. Like the fact that he had an adopted daughter named Flora, and his own nemesis named Don Paulo.

But it wasn't enough, and every time that she logged onto the computer, she knew she was just hurting herself. Every link she clicked cut at her heart, and every piece of information she came across triggered some sort of bittersweet memory. She shouldn't have to resort to this, but she had no other choice, and when she logged off, she vowed she wouldn't do it again.

But no matter how much it hurt, she couldn't stop herself. Before she knew it, she would be logging on again, opening old wounds, cutting new ones. Claire wasn't quite sure why she was subjecting herself to this. Perhaps she was addicted to it. Or, more likely, she was searching for something, some sign of what had become of him after her death. Not on the shallow levels covered on those sites, but on a deeper level, though she never found what she was looking for.

Finally unable to stand it any longer, Claire managed to talk herself into going to Gressenheller University, wearing layers and a scarf that hid half her face. It was partly to protect her from the cold, but mostly to prevent anyone from recognizing her. She wasn't sure what she was going to do when she got there, but she needed to see Hershel again, even just once.

Claire took extra care as she followed a student's directions to Hershel's classroom, constantly rearranging the scarf to cover as much of her face as possible. Finally, in the labyrinth of corridors, she found the correct room, its door standing wide open, and she lingered in the entrance, her eyes drinking in the scene.

First she saw the ridiculously attentive students, all of them taking careful notes, so unlike her own university classes. They seemed to be hanging on every word that Hershel spoke as he paced up and down the front of the room, his back to her. At the window, he turned, facing her direction now, and Claire could see that he hadn't changed much. His features were very much the same, and he carried a cup of tea as always, but he'd had a change in wardrobe. And then she saw the hat that he wore on his head. . .

Claire fled. Through a labyrinth of corridors, across the university grounds, down endless streets, she ran and ran until the pain made her halt in an unfamiliar part of London. She leaned against the doorframe of a bookstore, unable to move another inch. She stood there for a few minutes until her breathing evened out, until she regained the feeling in her legs, until the searing stitches in her side faded into tiny throbs of pain.

Even then she lingered there a moment longer, considering the matter. That top hat was unmistakably the one she had given him that day they had parted. He'd taken awfully good care of it, but even she could see that it was worn from years of constant wear. Claire remembered what she had told him when she had given it to him, her final gift to him before she had left for the lab: "No taking it off."

And he hadn't.

It was only then that Claire understood just how much her death must have meant to him. How much he still must love her. How much she still loved him.

And how damn much she missed their unwound future.

* * *

**I love marking stories complete. It makes me feel like I actually accomplished something, which is a rare feeling for me because I rarely accomplish anything worthwhile.**

**Thank you so much to everyone who reviewed (especially those that went a bit deeper than the regular ones), favourited, and/or alerted this story. There were a lot more of you than I expected, which was a surprise, but a pleasant one. You guys are awesome.**

**I'm hoping to write some more Professor Layton fanfiction, either sooner or later. Although it will probably be vastly different than this – as in, more on the humorous side. Sometimes, Smart Aleckette needs to be a smart aleckette. Either way, keep an eye out? (Shameless plug, I know. Don't judge.)**

**Either way, I'm really pleased with how this turned out. My goal for this was to expand a little on each of these five characters, make people think a bit more about certain ones (Read: Bill) and based on the reaction I got, I feel as if I succeeded. Thanks for reading! :)**

**~S.A.**


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